


All These Battles

by saekhwa



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Asexuality Spectrum Mick, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Complicated Relationships, Fight Club - Freeform, Fights, Fist Fights, Hand Jobs, Inspired by Episode: s01e10 Progeny, Interracial Relationship, M/M, Male Character of Color, Porn, Pyromania, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 09:02:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6511978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekhwa/pseuds/saekhwa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mick wants to shoot something or burn something. Leonard says he can't. Fight Club'll have to be enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All These Battles

**Author's Note:**

> There aren't any spoilers for episode 1.10 "Progeny," but this was definitely inspired by the events in that ep, and I have a thing for Fight Club AUs/fusions/elements. Apparently, Legends of Tomorrow gives me a lot of Coldwave feelings.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to my awesome friend Moriavis for beta'ing and giving me valuable feedback. And thanks to the flailosaurs for their constant encouragement.

Leonard stands there like a cocky son of a bitch. Somehow gets a pass, because the room's so packed no one notices him in the back, leaned against the pillar, watching like he always does. 

After, he's asking, "This how you let off steam, Mick?" 

Mick grunts. "You miss the first rule?"

Leonard smirks but doesn't talk about it. Proof he didn't miss a thing. 

~*~

Leonard doesn't go the next time. Says he's too busy planning a heist. Mick tells him, "Better be a bigger score this time."

"It's always bigger and better."

Mick's got nothing to say to that. All innuendos with Leonard when Mick just wants some clear directions of the point, shoot, and burn everything variety. 

He shrugs into his coat. Leonard, behind him, says, "Break the other guy's leg," as he heads out the door. 

~*~

Mick wants to shoot something. Leonard's telling him he can't, so this'll have to be enough — dark underbelly of a basement in a dive bar, bunch of guys perched on the kegs or pumping their fists in the air. Some of 'em already bleeding on the sidelines, trying to catch their breaths.

His opponent keeps circling the small ring, circling around Mick, who's willing to stand in the middle and wait. 'Cause sometimes Leonard's wrong. Mick can be patient. Just doesn't wanna be. 

When he does move — uppercut that splits his knuckles open — the guy's head rocks back. Blood oozes down his chin. He tries to catch it with his hands before he turns and spits. It joins the rest of the stains on the concrete, but it's too late for the guy. 

Mick comes in with his left and then a jab to the ribs. Another jab. He grunts when the guy gets in a lucky shot. Only knocks Mick back a couple of steps. He can barely taste the blood in his mouth. Mick comes back in, knocks the guy back with a punch that cracks against the guy's jaw, whips his head around so fast that it barrels into the fist Mick's got ready for him. He falls, but Mick doesn't let up. It's a one-two punch and spurts of blood. Another one-two punch and the guy's hand slides off Mick's arm. Mick keeps punching, right, left, right, left, 'til he hears, "Yo! Yo, man, he's down!"

~*~

"Let me guess," Leonard says, leaning back in his chair, giving Mick a slow up-down look, "the other guy looks worse?"

Leonard shouldn't be awake. Mick sees the plans scattered across the table, though, and that's the answer. All Mick needs is the first aid kit, so he grunts, drops his coat on the peg of the coat rack, and heads down the hall. 

He looks in the mirror, sees one cut on his cheek. None the worse for wear. Just add it to the burn scars all down his body. Mick looks under the sink and pulls out the first aid kit. He focuses on his hands. They're all busted up. Nothing broken. Maybe. Just the hazards of punching hard objects. Felt good, though. Not as good as the fire and the heat but good enough. 

He pops open the first aid kit, roots around in it but can't find—

"Here. Put some ice on it. To stop the swelling." 

Mick looks up at Leonard's face, and Leonard's looking down. It's when Mick sees the bag of frozen peas that Leonard holds out to him. 

"Don't need it." He continues shifting around the gauze and boxes of band-aids. 

Leonard reaches in, all delicate, plucks out the antibacterial wipes and Neosporin, holds them between his fingers like a magic trick. Always showing off. 

"Was getting there," Mick says, and takes the wipes. 

"Just lending a hand." Leonard drops the Neosporin back into the kit and then leans against the door jamb, folding his arms across his chest. He watches Mick with that narrow look he always gets when he's thinking. Looks like he's thinking really damn hard over there. 

Mick lets Leonard think himself away while he focuses on tearing off the bits of stray skin determined to hang on. Once he's gotten all the loose, jagged pieces of skin off, he tears open the antibacterial wipe with his teeth. He doesn't lose track of Leonard out of the corners of his eyes. 

He slaps the wipe onto his right hand and hisses in a breath. Stings, but Mick focuses on the task, scrapes away the blood and dirt 'til he's done. 

"Mick," Leonard says, and has a new one opened up, so Mick drops the one he's using in the trash. Uses it on his left hand, starts the process again. 

When he's finished, Leonard steps forward and takes the gauze before Mick can get to it. He unrolls it slowly. "You gonna be good for the job tomorrow?"

"I'm always good." 

Mick holds out his hand, so Leonard can do the wrapping. Leonard's always more careful about it anyway. 

~*~

It's a good heist. The score's big, and Leonard lets Mick fire the warning shot. Not as satisfying as it would be just burning down the store, but when Leonard's counting the loot at Mick's place, he says, "Burn the plans."

Mick knows Leonard saves 'em for jobs like these, but he still hauls 'em out to the stone pit in the back, dumps 'em all in. He drops to the ground so he can get up close and personal. Nothing as sweet as the first flare from the match. Mick just watches. That first flame burns right down to the tips of his fingers. So damn satisfying — that heat. The second match he holds under the corner of one of the pages 'til it catches. The third match he holds to another corner, and he keeps going like that until the whole pile is on fire. He grins as he watches it all burn, as the pages curl in and float away in flickering piles of ash. 

~*~

"Rule eight," Mick says, because this is the fifth time Leonard's tagged along but he still hasn't stepped into the ring to fight.

Leonard slides a look at him, smirks. "Like we've ever followed the rules." He shrugs. "Plus, this isn't my first night anymore. I can do whatever I want."

Mick shrugs. He knows the reason Leonard's not circling the ring is not just 'cause Leonard likes breaking the rules. Only thing he won't break is his own code. No. It's 'cause of rule six — no shirts, no shoes — that Leonard won't enter the ring. It's funny. In a way. 

~*~

Mick shuffles in late. Leonard's in the living room, book open in one hand, steaming mug of something in the other. He looks up once then it's back to his book. 

"This becoming a habit? Do I need to stage an intervention?" he asks. 

"Do I need to start charging you rent?" 

Mick grunts as he peels off his coat, the collar tacky with blood. Would've made for an interesting walk from the bar to here, but guess the cops were occupied. The fingers of his left hand go numb. Makes it hard to get off the right sleeve, but he manages and gets the coat on the peg. When he turns, Leonard's book is gone, mug's on the table, and he's got the first aid kit open. Must've ate the bag of peas. 

Mick drops into his chair and makes a point to say, "I can do it myself."

"Know you can, but we're partners." Leonard tears opens the antibacterial wipe and holds it, staring at Mick long and hard. "We look out for each other."

They sit there for a while in a stand off. Mick's tired, though. No point in a stalemate. Not gonna win nothin'. He holds out his hand, and Leonard moves out of the chair, sits on the coffee table, balancing the first aid kit on his lap. He's even got a pair of tweezers on his knee but Mick doesn't need 'em. Ends up Leonard uses them to pull a guy's tooth from between Mick's knuckles. He never even noticed it on the long walk home. 

~*~

After a few weeks of a lot of, "Keep it cool, Mick," Mick hunches over the stone pit in the backyard. He's got a pile of random things from the house — takeout boxes, junk mail, dryer lint, the cardboard toilet paper roll, some dried dead flowers from Lisa. She delivered 'em alive, even put 'em in a vase with some water. Mick never filled it back up, so they'd die quicker. At the top of his kindling stack, he's got the neighbor's Sunday paper. Not like they need it. It's all digital anyway. 

In his hand, he's got two full boxes of matches. Never leaves home without 'em. First one he opens up and dumps the match sticks on top. They fall in a mess, tumbling over each other, but they'll do their job when it comes down to it. 

The second box, Mick opens up. He strikes the first match and is lost in the flame, the way it dances and wavers from a breeze. Stings his fingers when it burns down. Second match does, too. And the third and fourth. It leaves little red marks on his skin. 

Only reason he stops is 'cause he's got a bigger fire to set. He strikes the next match and drops it on top of the pile. It's good kindling he's got there. The flames arc up, bright and strong. It eats through the flowers and the dryer lint in seconds. Junk mail takes some time, 'cause of the stupid plastic windows. It's not so bad, though. Gives Mick a chance to sit on his ass and breathe in that good, clean burn. 

~*~

With the kegs and the boxes and the poor security — it'd be easy to light up the basement. It'd give Mick enough time to get up the stairs, light the banister behind him. He could smash up the bar. Liquor's a good fuel. He'd get a bottle of the top shelf as a victory drink. Rest he'd trail behind him—

"Mick," Leonard says in his ear. 

Mick steps forward, rolling his shoulders back as he sizes up his opponent. He only glances back once. He spots Leonard, who's got this serious frown on his face, that narrow, intense concentration from thinking too hard. Then he steps back and disappears, and Mick's got a guy with twice his reach to worry about. 

That reach gets Mick a couple times, but it's rule seven — fights go on as long as they have to — where Mick edges out most of these assholes. Rule three, too, where someone has to call the fight, even if it's the guy's limp body. Not dead. Can't kill here either. But juvie, prison, heists, the fire — all gives Mick a leg up, which he brings down on the guy's chest. Knocks the breath out of the guy, but he still struggles, tries to trip Mick up, but Mick just brings his other foot into play, kicks the guy's face, wishes he had on his boots. Pretends that he does as he brings his heel down on the guy's nose, his cheek, the hand that the guy tries to raise to protect himself. It all just gets smashed in. Chest, ribs, stomach, arms.

When they finally call mercy for the guy, Mick's breathing hard, great heaving breaths amidst a roaring crowd. Mick walks through 'em, doesn't much feel their back pats or what they're saying. He gets his shirt from Leonard, and they go. 

It's back to Mick's place, where Leonard has the first aid kit on the kitchen table. He pops it open while Mick takes off his coat. He hangs that up. His shirt, once he peels out of it, he tosses on the floor. Can't get the blood out and it'd be nice to burn. 

Instead of sitting, even with Leonard watching him, Mick goes to the fridge and pulls out a beer. He turns. "You want one?"

Leonard frowns but shakes his head. "Let's get you cleaned up first."

"Shower'll do that." Mick uses the counter to pop off the top. He takes one long swig, and then he sits. "It's not that bad."

"Oh, yeah." Leonard opens the antibacterial wipe. "The other guy looks worse." He stares at Mick, who continues drinking. 

"Got a problem, Snart?"

"With you? No."

"Then who?"

Leonard reaches across the table and takes Mick's hand. Gauze, peroxide — none of it's gonna heal the scars. 

"Not sure what's worse," Leonard says, and looks up at Mick, just for a second before he's focused on Mick's hand again. "Your pyromania or this new hobby of yours."

Mick slams the bottle on top of the table. Leonard doesn't jump. He barely even looks at it as he wraps the gauze around Mick's knuckles. 

"Right." Leonard smirks and takes Mick's other hand. "Rules one and two." 

"Now you remember."

"Never forgot."

Leonard's memory's always been selective. Mick's not surprised it's no different now. 

When Leonard's finished with hand number two, he slides his chair forward. Mick sits stiff as Leonard grasps his chin and starts working on cleaning away the blood. Mick can feel where the cuts are, not just his split lip but along his cheek. Eye's swollen, too, but he can still see out of it. See enough of Leonard's pinched face to know Leonard's working up to something.

Once Mick's as cleaned up as he's gonna get, Leonard settles back in his chair, knees knocking against Mick's. 

"If you need to blow off some steam … ." 

Mick feels his eyebrows draw together, and he snatches up his beer, tips his head back to swallow the rest of it in one long gulp. He looks at Leonard. "What're you getting at?"

Leonard leans forward again, sets his hand on Mick's knee, slides it halfway up Mick's thigh. "There's other ways, Mick." 

Like fire. Like rule six in a seedy bar basement. Guess Leonard's trying to slot himself there, too. 

"We're partners," Leonard says. Always what he says when he's trying to talk Mick down. 

When he squeezes Mick's thigh, it's cheap, but Mick spreads his legs. It's as close to a yes as he's willing to give. Leonard smiles. It's tight-lipped, followed by a nod. 

His fingers are cold when he hooks them into Mick's jeans to open 'em up. He frowns at the dried flakes of blood that fly off. Fight's like that, blood gets everywhere. Mick can feel it on his toes inside his boots. But Leonard doesn't say anything, so neither does Mick. 

He cooperates just enough. Lifts his hips, so Leonard can get his jeans down far enough that they don't have to worry about the zipper cutting Mick's dick. Then Leonard reaches into the first aid kit and pulls out a travel-size tube of lube. It's proof he's been working up to this for a while. One of those plans within plans, timed right down to the second. 

Leonard wraps his slick hand around Mick's cock, and Mick hisses in a breath. "'S cold," Mick grunts. 

Leonard smirks. "Ice and fire." Bastard. 

The first stroke of Leonard's hand … feels like any other. Whether Mick does it, someone else — it's all the same. It's friction and heat, once his body gets into it. It's Leonard wrapping his other hand around the back of Mick's neck, leaning in to rest his forehead against Mick's. It's Leonard's fingers working Mick tight, the squelch from the lube, the grunt of Mick's breath.

Eventually, it's enough for Mick to grip the edge of the kitchen table and thrust up. Leonard squeezes the back of Mick's neck when Mick groans. He tightens up his hand on Mick's cock, too, pumps and twists, pumps and twists. When Mick grunts, his body stiffening with his climax, Leonard keeps stroking just long enough for Mick's orgasm to finish. Then he stops. 

Mick opens his eyes, sees Leonard's smile first. Then Leonard shifts his hand to Mick's shoulder and lets go of Mick's cock. 

"We're in this together," Leonard says, but this isn't rule four — two guys to a fight. It's Mick with his dick out, poking at a loose tooth with his tongue, the brief heat from his orgasm already gone. 

Mick pulls up his jeans and tucks himself back in while Leonard walks over to the sink to wash his hands. When he's done, he leans against the counter, stares. 

"Next time," he says. 

Mick stands. "I'm gonna start charging you rent, Snart. Get out. I need a shower. And some sleep."

Leonard pushes away from the counter. He's right up in Mick's space, but all he does is close the first aid kit. Then he holds it up, lets go when Mick takes it. 

"Under the sink."

"Yeah, I know."

"Night, Mick."

Mick walks past him, heads down the hall toward the bathroom, a grunt the only good-bye Leonard's gonna get.


End file.
